Ferme, Fere
by Lord Axxingtons
Summary: Alistair's lost without Duncan. He's alone. He's stuck in a miserable forest with a haughty witch, a slobbering dog, and a too-pretty, too-kind male elf. This can only go badly. (early game, alistair being no homo)


**this is the most self-indulgent thing i've ever written lmao**

**my mahariel, tamvin, is painfully welsh, very kind, puts flowers in his hair, and had mad sexual tension with alistair in the early game - hence this. i'm super weak to straight-dude-has-sexuality-crisis-and-is-kind-of-a-dick-about-it trope.**

**content warning: contains some brief gross feminisation/fetishisation of elves in alistair's thoughts**

* * *

The stars gather, and Alistair can't sleep. Ebbs of their campfire still flicker, and he can see a light where Morrigan's bedroll is, a measured distance away from their camp - he doesn't think he's ever seen her sleep, just stay up all night reading that damnable spellbook. He isn't sure he trusts the witch, yet, but oddly, the fact that she doesn't trust them either, keeping her distance and putting on airs of condescencion, is a little reassuring.

So it's the three of them by the fire, a mabari and the last Grey Wardens. And every time he thinks of that, the weight on his heart grows thicker, tracing the same patterns over again. _I should have been there. I should have protected him. _And more dark: _I should have died with them._

Alistair's a soldier. He knows these thoughts come to anyone who loses comrades. Survivors' guilt, Duncan had called it. He thinks perhaps the older man spoke from experience. And he knows it's best to let it go. Never let your past grieve you, and keep fighting.

That's what Tamvin seems to believe. Strange, the elf, strange and new, this little alien stranger in an oversized Warden's helmet; a feared Dalish hunter, but kind and sweet and always wanting to help. Those brief days in Ostagar he'd feared Tamvin's sweetness would land him in big trouble, or that it was a facade and the elf was a spy playing a larger game. But then the battle, and the fierce fiery arrows that flew from Tamvin's bow, and the bright tears that had sprung up in his big eyes when Morrigan told them what happened. This was Alistair's true brother-in-arms. His last brother-in-arms.

Alistair looks up, stretching out the crick in his neck, and sees glowing eyes from the bedroll meet his.

Suppressing a yelp, he starts as Tamvin sits up on one elbow and gazes at him. Barkspawn rolls over in his sleep, giving a little snuffle.

"I - sorry, I always forget about how... your eyes... at night... well, yes. Um, should I put out the fire? I don't want to keep you up." Alistair whispers.

Tamvin stares. Is that a Dalish thing, that staring thing, Alistair wonders, rubbing his neck. Because it's weird. Lots of things about Tamvin are a bit weird, and he isn't sure how much to attribute to elfiness.

"You look awfully sad, Alistair," the elf replies, mournfully. He's got a high, lilting voice, that unique hill-bred accent. He puts one delicate hand on Barkspawn's belly, scratching the dog absently.

"Yes... I suppose... I was just thinking. Can't seem to get to damned sleep."

"Would you like some ale to help?" Tamvin offers, pulling a bottle from his backpack. Alistair sort of wishes he would stop spending coin on gifts and trinkets that he's constantly offering to Morrigan and himself, but he's the one who put the elf in charge.

"I... Yes, that might be an idea. Pour some for yourself, too. But we mustn't have too much. Raiders might come again."

Tamvin smiles and pours a single mug. "It doesn't agree with my stomach. I'll keep an ear out, don't you worry." He taps a long ear to indicate as much, and passes the mug to Alistair, who takes it clumsily and sips. He knows he's rather a lightweight - little drinking experience - but the fuzzy sensation of drunkenness, like having a blanket draped over one's head, might be exactly what he needs on a cold, sharp night with a head full of worries.

Tamvin stands and sits next to him on the log, looking at the dying fire. The slight, pleasant warmth of the elf's body next to him registers in Alistair's awareness. He doesn't move, and takes another drink.

"If you want to talk about Duncan, I'll listen. But if not, we can just sit together. Isn't it nicer than being alone?" Tamvin says softly. Alistair isn't sure what to say to that.

"I just... I don't know how to get out of this rut. I know I ought to have... taken charge, as the senior Warden, shown you what to do, formulated the plan. But I just... Without Duncan, I second-guess everything I do. I'm sorry, I must seem a right miserable prick. And with you so new to it all." Alistair finds himself mumbling halfway down his mug.

"I'm a quick learner," Tamvin smiles, eyes still on the fire. "And it's all right. I understand. I... I didn't know Duncan that well. But I met him just after I lost my brother - that is, my best friend. He... He turned into a darkspawn, I think. Duncan told me that after he saved my life. And I lost my senses; I got angry at Duncan, I wanted to go and search the forest for Tamlen's body. Duncan was right, of course. It would have done me no good to see my brother like that. But grief makes you irrational."

"It does," Alistair agrees, now at the bottom of his mug and rather surprised to find himself out of ale. "Sorry, your best friend's name was Tam-len?"

Tamvin chuckles softly. "It's a bad coincidence, I know. We do have lots of other names."

"I never met a Dalish before you," Alistair finds himself saying, trying his best not to slur his words; to reveal himself drunk would be really embarrassing. "Lots of elves, but they were all servants. It's... easy to forget that they're people. Bad, I know, awful thing to say, but when they're all so... little and skittish and polite and then... I always pictured Dalish bigger, tall fierce hunters. But you're just as little. And just as polite." He stops there, before he says something worse.

"I think I can be quite fierce." Tamvin turns to him with a half-smile.

Alistair leans forward and studies the elf. He can see why people think they're pretty, why the older Templars used to talk wistfully about this or that elven tavern girl. Tamvin's slender and gentle, freckles sloping down his thin brown shoulders, grass and flowers woven into his dark braided hair. His eyes are so huge, green, and long-lashed.

He can't say he's never thought things. Women at Ostagar were scarce, young pretty ones even more so. And Morrigan is so intimidating, if he were to fantasize about her, he can't shake the feeling she'd somehow know immediately and turn him into a toad.

And Tamvin is always just - just right there, and looking like that, and gazing at Alistair with that mournful expression.

It's not like he thinks depravities. Honestly, though he does wake up with tented trousers sometimes, he has only the most clinical and vague ideas about sex, and sex with men? Well, he knows it happens; everyone knows that. The ins and outs, however, he hasn't the foggiest. He doesn't have anything explicit in mind. Just... just a warm touch on a cold night. Just skin, just threading his fingers through long, silky hair._ And would it really count, with an elf who looks just like a girl_?

He curls up his fingers in his palms. Maker, what an awful thing to think.

He realises he hasn't spoken, and Tamvin is looking at him curiously.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

Alistair nods mutely. Their faces are very close.

Then Tamvin's forehead is touching his, lightly, and a gentle hand is stroking his arm. Their noses might be touching. Their mouths aren't quite. He can feel their breath meeting in the air between. He doesn't speak a word. He doesn't move - not to slap the hand away, or to hold it. He just stays very still.

He doesn't know what this is. Maybe the Dalish are very affectionate. Maybe this is normal between friends.

"I could make you feel better." It's a soft murmur, and then the hand is no longer on his arm, it's on his thigh.

Or maybe not.

"I - um - " Alistair manages. "I don't know if - if that's a good idea."

"Oh." Tamvin retreats and looks rather embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

"You - you didn't. It's fine. I've got - I've really got no problem with-"

"Yes, of course."

"It's just that I don't - myself - I'm not really-"

"No, I understand."

"I really prefer women," he says, weakly.

"Of course."

There's a pause. They are no longer touching.

Of course. He prefers women. But - and he can see it just a little in Tamvin's reproachful eyes - that moment still happened.

* * *

The next morning he wakes up with a heavy heat on his chest, and starts awake out of an uncomfortable dream, opening his eyes to be met with a globule of drool.

"Ugh," Alistair mutters, and reaches up to blearily scratch Barkspawn's ears, the mabari's tail thumping happily against his legs. Lovely.

He becomes aware of voices, and cranes his neck - Tamvin and Morrigan are both up and packing their bags, and he's about to jump up, embarrassed, and join in, when he hears something that gives him pause, and closes his eyes again hastily.

"I hope you're not falling for that fool," says Morrigan's voice. Alistair's insides twist uncomfortably.

"I don't know what gives you that idea," says Tamvin, with his usual cheerfulness.

"Do not try to fob me off. I was witness to that little shambles last night. You are clearly a disturbingly good person, Tamvin. 'Twould not be wise to waste that goodness on someone who doesn't want you too."

Tamvin, quieter. "The way he looks at me. He does want me. He just doesn't know what to do about it."

Alistair clenches his jaw. Ass! He'll never drink another day in his life.

"He doesn't want you the same way," Morrigan says, matter-of-fact, half-amused. "Human men only ever have one thing on the brain. He's curious about you because you're an elf. Fetishistic. Do not give him another opportunity; he cannot _love _you."

Quieter now, subdued. "I don't need him to love me, Morrigan. I know I'm a fool. I'll take what I can get." And suddenly, in a brighter tone - "Barkspawn! Barkspawn, boy, where's your dish?"

The dog kick-leaps off Alistair's stomach, causing him to sit up choking. "Argh!" Looking up sheepishly, he wonders if he can pretend he only just woke up.

"There's your diiish! A good boy! _A good boy_," Tamvin is saying to the dog, rubbing his belly, not looking at Alistair.

Alistair sits up, and Morrigan, arms full of bundled herbs, gives him a _look_.

Andraste's ass. The sooner they get to Redcliffe, the better.


End file.
